The Lone Cat

I walk along these Halls and I think about how untarnished these little Birds and Statues and oddities are; they are all each consumed in their own Fantasies, vying for a lovely Lime-Green Berry when there’s a Bloodred one up much higher.

Outside, the sky is silent,
a pot of freshly spilled ink
the artist flusteredly dabs at his ruined canvas,
leaving a spot of greyish-pale, the moon
 

we are made up of atoms of unfairness, deceptionatoms upon atoms upon nothing upon everythinghow can we say that we are wondrous and all-knowing? 

In the ripeness of the morning

You asked, what are we but 
purple skies, bruised and hidden
behind tasteless wine?

I did not answer you then,
being swayed by the clashing
air, bitter seeds and peels crushed

and I am diaphanous glass
fragile prettiness only seen
when touched by your glow,
my luster fleeting and 
not lasting. 
 

Holding past apples in arms:
what almost has
vanished,
selvage and leaf-lavish open.